God Rest Ye Merry Hypocrites
by the ersatz diplomat
Summary: First, it’s bad luck to wake a sleeping Auror. There is a very high possibility that I could get hexed for it, and I’m not fond of the idea of spending Christmas as a ferret." Written for the MetamorFic Moon Pink Christmas Advent on LiveJournal.


**Title:** God Rest Ye Merry Hypocrites  
**Rating:** T or PG-13 for innuendo, snogging, and language.  
**Warning, this product may contain traces of:** Mental instability, first-person point-of-view, poor attempts at the validation of affection from others, Fight Club references and general lunacy. Oh, and Christmas.  
**Prompts:** "You are not exactly Superman, but you are awfully available." _(White Christmas)_  
**Word Count: **1,895  
**Summary:** "But she's the one that fell asleep on my shoulder, who am I to wake her? First, it's bad luck to wake a sleeping Auror. There is a very high possibility that I could get hexed for it, and I'm not fond of the idea of spending Christmas as a ferret."  
**Author's Notes:** This is humour, or is supposed to be, just in case you're wondering. For some reason, the internets aren't letting me fix the tags. Written for the MetamorFic_Moon Pink Christmas Advent Event on LiveJournal.

* * *

Her skin is hot, even through the shirt she's wearing, and she breathes in an unnervingly slow and steady way. Down my neck, of course. Just my luck.

But she's the one that fell asleep on _my_ shoulder, who am I to wake her? It's bad luck to wake a sleeping Auror. There is a very high possibility that I could get hexed for it, and I'm not fond of the idea of spending Christmas as a ferret.

More importantly, she's just so…peaceful looking. I wouldn't dare wake her—that would be blasphemy. It'd be like drawing a goatee on the Mona Lisa. Which, coincidentally, is just as dangerous as waking a sleeping Auror. The things you learn when you go to France for the hols with a teenaged James Potter…

But don't get me wrong; this isn't the _romantic_ sort of kip-on-our-colleague's-shoulder, not in the least. Or at least, it _wouldn't_ be if we weren't in the cozily dark sitting room, between the banked coals of the fire and the fairy lights on the tree, alone but for an abandoned book and two empty mugs.

Alone…in the dark…on Christmas Eve?

No, that's not romantic _at all_.

Not one _tiny_ bit.

_Hardly. _

It's so quiet not even the fire is crackling anymore and Kreacher certainly isn't stirring, nor are any of the other things that go bump in the night around here. In fact, I think I'm the only creature awake, the sole reason for that being the girl who discovered my post-party hideout decided that the best place to sleep would be on the sofa where I was reading…and is currently cutting off the circulation to my arm.

I can't move. If circumstances were different I wouldn't complain, but…

Her breath smells like chocolate-covered cherries, evidence that she has already opened the box I gave her for Christmas. Which also happen to be my favourites from Honeydukes, the ones that taste fantastic and I'm betting that she tastes just as…

Nope.

Never mind.

It isn't going to happen.

There's not a snowball's chance in hell for—

This is where she, in a move straight out of a campy novel, shifts until she is entirely too close, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like my name, and ends up half in my lap. Not the best place for her to be if I have a mind to sustain my usual attitude of conscientious objection towards intimate relationships—a method that is rather difficult to continue when the would-be enemy to all hopes for my sanity is sleeping with her hand on my thigh…

This is where I would usually put both hands over my ears and start singing the chorus of "God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs" at top volume, but cannot, being trapped as it were between the proverbial rock and hard place. The rock being, oddly enough, a warm and girlish body…

…And the hard place?

Well, to be tactful, I suppose that could be the psychological corner I seem to have painted myself into. In the words of a Mr. Black, it's time to stare at the ceiling and feign innocence.

Though who am I trying to fool besides myself?

And I'm not even doing a very good job of it…

Her hair smells like vanilla and cinnamon. I know this for certain because one—she was baking something with the Weasley women earlier, and two—she just nuzzled her way under my chin and sighed an enthusiastic, worn-out kind of sigh that made every nerve in my body say, in astonishment, "Is that a girl that's trying to wrap around us like a starfish?"

Not all of the nerves are happy about it.

Some of them are quite worried.

As well they should be.

There is no reasonable explanation for her…behavior. Not that she's reasonable, explicable, or ever behaves herself, so it makes sense in a singularly nonsensical way. But it just doesn't fit with nature. She's beautiful, young, wickedly smart, funny as hell, extremely talented—and I'm a…

Well, let's not go there.

But she… she's the kind of person that once you meet her you forget what your life was like before you met her and so, essentially, you didn't really exist before because there's no way in hell that you can believe that you ever lived before you knew her.

Me, on the other hand—I'm just Boring Old Me, and I have a feeling that title won't be selling very many books, if you know what I mean…

If there isn't an _explanation_, then there certainly isn't a likely _excuse_ for her conduct, either. She isn't drunk, she knows she was talking to me. We discussed Ministry conspiracy theories and whether or not Fudge's hair is real for an hour before she went cuddly and decided to use me as a pillow…

But she _was_ conspicuously flirty the whole time, and I swear I would have noticed had I not been so distracted by how she kept stealing my book, and batting her eyelashes, and making funny innuendos—

I am Joe's Impressively Absurd Naiveté.

She _can't_ like me. It's impossible. It has to be something else…probably convenience. Or availability. I'm the only single guy around that isn't filthy, continually foul-tempered, or related to her… or a combination thereof. Needless to say, there isn't much in regards to a supply of possible dates in the Order, and even less of a demand. But doesn't she know better? I'm not the best potential boyfriend, apparent from my utter lack of funds and sometimes excess amounts of hair. But I don't want her to _hate_ me. I just don't want her to…

_Like_ me?

Yes, I do.

Want her to _like_ me.

That, among other things.

But it's not going to happen. It _can't_ happen—that would be a catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions worthy of the metaphor. This says the man who, not an hour ago, was wondering how she would feel about being felt up on the floor by the fireplace...

God rest ye merry…

Hypocrites?

Hippogriffs?

Gryffindors?

Flying Fords?

This isn't going to work—I can't even remember the first line.

It's just proximity. It _has_ to be, we're together all the time, neither of us is seeing anyone since she's too busy and I'm—well, too bitey. She's definitely busy; the girl works two jobs, one of them being a "the first rule of the Order is that you don't talk about the Order" kind of job. The secrecy alone would make it difficult to go out with someone who isn't in on the secret, I'm sure, but enough for her to resort to the mandatory minority? The jobless layabout? I'm not even _good-looking_ enough to justify this kind of attention—

This lips-on-my-neck, fingers-in-my-hair kind of attention?

I don't think she's asleep anymore.

Her mouth is somewhere in the vicinity of my ear, and the steady bombardment of cuteness that I had battled through all night has just turned into a total assault of "Whoa."

There's my name again, and with a question mark at the end she makes a whole sentence of it.

"Yes?" I say, and it comes out sounding absolutely terrified.

"You asleep?"

"N-n-n-no?" I say, in a blundering stammer, which I imagine is hardly as endearing as her drowsy murmur.

"Hey, you're not seeing anyone, are you?"

I shake my head 'no,' and she continues.

Whispering. In my ear.

"So you're available, then?"

_Available?_ No, I'm not bloody_ available_. Clearly, women are chasing me _constantly_. I have to bar the doors at night to keep them away. Available…Ha.

She runs the bridge of her nose along my jaw, effectively ending my attempts at sarcasm.

There is no hope for me.

I'm so pathetic. I didn't know I could _be_ this pathetic…

"Well, are you?"

Am I what, pathetic or available? Because I'm both.

I'm pathetically available.

I'm availably pathetic.

"Quite," I say while wondering which action I should take—one; run away like a girl, two; kiss her, or three; wait for my brain to implode. The third option is likely to be more impressive, as all the girls I know are better runners, and I haven't kissed any girl, runner or not, since…

Well, let's not go there, either.

"Good."

Her voice is dark and sleepy, and if "good" actually meant what it _sounds_ like it means, then I think more people would be saying it. And she's so blasé about it, as if falling asleep on and/or seducing werewolves is something she does every day. Or would like to do every day. Or should at least be provided with the opportunity to do every day, and taking into consideration that I'm the only one around…

She does extraordinary things with her fingers in my hair, all of which are wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrongedy _wrong._

"Good?" I ask, just to rid us of this awful, expectant silence—she takes the opportunity to slip closer.

As if she wasn't close enough already.

What with her being practically on top of me and all.

"Yeah, I just wanted to make sure before…"

"Before what?" I ask, admittedly mystified, but it sounds more like _"Bfffffrwt?"_ because all of a sudden her mouth is on mine.

In a kiss.

That's right…

A _kiss_.

A warm, sticky, awkward, chocolately, so-innocent-I-think-I-might-have-just-died kind of kiss. An I-almost-passed-out-because-I-forgot-to-breathe kind of kiss. The kind of kiss where you can feel just how infinite infinity actually is, when you realize that this eternity you've spent in blissful, terrifying delirium only actually adds up to a few seconds of real time. A few short breaths. It's an overwhelming, cosmic kind of sensation, the kind that makes you feel immortal and unstoppable. Superhuman.

Her hands find mine in the dark and she puts them where she wants them—one in her hair, one on the curve of her hip, and it doesn't matter anymore that nine out of ten people hate me without ever having met me, because _she_ likes me enough to let me know that she does. Enough to let me show her just how much I appreciate that…She doesn't back away or open her eyes or stop, and I realize that I'd forgotten how two people could be so close to each other and still not be close enough when I try to let go of her and _can't._

Won't.

So I don't.

She doesn't seem to mind and smiles when she lays her head against my shoulder again.

"I guess I'm not available _now_, right?" I venture, when I catch my breath, wondering if I should remind her that she's just snogged someone/something that most people typically chase with pitchforks and torches.

"Yep." She whispers,"And if you so much as think the "W" word, I swear I'll turn you into a ferret."

Right...so that answers _that_ question.

"And don't you know any other Christmas carols besides one?" She continues, "You kept humming "God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs" over and over."

"Of course I- wait a minute...You were awake that whole time?"

She says nothing, but stares at the ceiling and feigns innocence.

I laugh until she feels the need to quiet me by slipping her arms around my neck and picking up where we left off, and suddenly being available doesn't seem like it was such a bad thing after all.


End file.
